


Pet

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Fondling, Leather Kink, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:53:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is learning something important about himself, albeit slowly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pet

**Author's Note:**

> For Mimi and Jennapie, who helped me through my writers' block: leather gloves.

He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it at first—that’s how insidious it is.  He and Bond are still fleshing out this relationship thing; Bond has thrown him onto the sofa hard enough to bounce, and yes.  He’s always enjoyed a little bit of rough handling, so he buries his face in the creamy dark leather and inhales while Bond shoves in.  The tannins make him dizzy, but they both get off and he thinks nothing of it, of having his face pressed into the fine-grain hide as he’s pounded over the arm of the sofa, the frame sturdy enough to support them and the ridiculously expensive skin growing hot and soft and lush with his body.  He stains the underside of the arm and Bond just laughs because, imported from Florence or not, it’s just a thing.  Bond claims it’s now his favorite bit of furniture in the flat, and Q secretly agrees.

No, that doesn’t tip him off, though in retrospect it probably should have.  What begins to draw the shades is the embarrassingly quick erection he gets when he sees Bond in motorcycle leathers, done up from head to toe in painted on black so dark it reflects purple.  Bond looks like he can barely bend his knees in those trousers, and Q goes flush and heated like a schoolgirl with her quim trembling.  They play a quick round of “you can leave your hat on” in Q’s office—at Q’s insistence, which is shamefully obvious when Q reflects—except it’s rather “you can leave your everything on, just get your cock out and get it in me now”, rushed and panting and desperate against the door.  Bond’s swagger after that is very nearly insufferable, and Q would regret ever having done it except for the remembered flashes of sweat and musk and leather, Bond’s body weight covering him and rocking up into him to lift him off his toes.  He finds himself sucking thoughtfully at the end of his pen and designing a better motorbike.

The thing that finally proves it to him is so mortifying and obvious that it’s clear to him that his libido has finally attacked with the clue-by-four: Bond’s tugging on the driving gloves at the end of his briefing, nudging the kidskin up his palms until it’s seated snugly when Q gets a very sudden and graphic daydream about fellating Bond’s fingers.  He shakes it away, pretends to be professional so hard he nearly breaks something, and waits until Bond’s safely in Cuba to break into his flat and roll around on his sofa, hand in his pants and lip between his teeth.  He leaves another stain, though to his credit he tries to clean it but ends up calling Bond to tell him about it and creating another one to join it.  To Bond’s credit, he doesn’t laugh—Q can hear him fondling himself on the other end of the line and nearly comes again when Bond unzips the glove to wash it clean while he’s still on the phone.

He’s standing in Bond’s kitchen when Bond gets home; it’s well after hours, but Q has all but moved in—his tea is in the cupboard, though, so perhaps in essence he has—and he’s working his way through a cuppa when Bond very patiently and courteously waits for him to put down his mug before covering his nose and mouth with a kidskin-wrapped hand.  Q sucks at the humid air and his lungs won’t fill but his cock does, thick and heavy and interested in the hot press of leather against his face and the solid weight of Bond at his back.  He groans, and even though Bond doesn’t make a sound Q can hear his grin.

He can’t tell him to shut up, doesn’t even want to after Bond starts to press thick fingers into his mouth.  He can taste metal, earth, and the faintest traces of petrol as he sucks at the seams.  They’re so fine he can’t feel the stitching; he’s impressed and aroused and hopelessly keyed by the feel of Bond working his clothes off with the hand that’s not currently fucking his mouth.  Bond has his shirt collar opened before he quite knows what to do with himself, and he’s picking at Q’s flies one-handed until Q drops his own hands to help and.

Oh.

The glove is body-hot and knife-thin, sleek and supple against the skin of his lower abdomen.  Q’s mind goes blank; his moan is so expansive he nearly chokes.  Bond’s teeth press against the skin of his shoulder like a threat or a promise and Q’s hips jerk into the touch, struggling against instinct as he pulls desperately on the reins to drag his body back under control.  He’s trembling; he knows Bond can feel it.

“I thought perhaps,” Bond murmurs against his skin, pressing indiscriminate kisses between words.  His fingers covering his face loosen, wrap around Q’s throat.

“Hoped,” Q counters.

“Suspected,” Bond corrects.  “The riding leathers were a good choice, but you sent me off with the wrong set—if you’d wanted to wear them yourself, you could have said.”

“Too small?” Q asks, though no, not really—they’d painted a very pretty picture and framed it fit for the Tate Modern, an ode to Bond’s bulge—and smiles indulgently.

“I nearly lost circulation in my left bollock,” Bond tells him, staring incredulously.  “You dirty sod.”

Q hums, tipping his face into the gloved hand.  “Are you complaining, Mr. Bond?”

“Absolutely not.  The mark’s wife practically threw herself at me and tried to ride my leg,” Bond says, and even though he knows it was supposed to, it sends jealousy stinging through his veins like a drug.  Q arches into the hand on his throat, the hand idly rubbing at his low belly. 

“Just wait ‘til you see what I’m going to do with you,” Q promises, and he doesn’t care that it sounds cheesy, doesn’t care that it shows his jealousy, doesn’t care at all that it plays his hand entirely.  Bond kisses tiny bites in the junction between his neck and shoulder and Q knows he understands.

“I’d rather what I’m going to do with you,” Bond says, the hand on Q’s body dipping lower, leather glove causing the sweetest stinging drag against his skin as he wraps it around Q’s cock.  Q whines; Bond chuckles.  “I’ve been thinking about this since that phone call.  Or since you handed them over with sex in your eyes—I watched you watch me put them on, and it was more enticing than watching someone else take her clothes off.  You wanted it then, Quartermaster, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Q hisses, caught between Bond’s hands like a butterfly struggling on the pin. 

“And then you broke into my flat,” Bond continues, still just holding.  His palm contracts; he squeezes Q’s cock so gently that he can hear the creak of the leather under his own panting.  “Diddled yourself on my sofa and called to taunt me about it.  I wanked with these gloves on,” Bond tells him, and Q’s body surges as he goes on, “to understand the appeal.  Because there’s a lot of appeal in this for you, isn’t there Q?”

“Yes,” Q admits.

“Good,” Bond says simply.  “Because now I know what it feels like, leather smooth and hot and dry against your skin.  It’s something I’d never experienced before, an experience like no other.  When you twist your hand like so,” he says, the motion dragging a broken sigh from Q’s lips, “it’s unbelievable.  But there’s too much friction before long, skin dragging on skin and that unpleasant clinging feeling.  It’s so much better when there’s something wet,”—and here Bond traces his fingertips through the slick of Q’s arousal, curling on the head to slip back the foreskin and trace the delicate stretch of the frenulum, making him arch and keen—“See?  Better.”

“God,” Q gasps.

“Do you want me to do that, Q?  To make you wet for me?” Bond asks.  Q can’t bring himself to answer, legs shaking as Bond tosses him off in the kitchen with the leather gloves like the world’s most demented and kinky game of Cluedo.  He laughs, short and sharp, and nods to keep himself from begging.  “Stay here,” Bond says, and suddenly his hands are gone.  Q buckles, clutching the countertop, knees loose and wobbly without Bond’s steady heartbeat at his back to hold him up.  He stares at the counter and wills his mind to come back.

He smells Bond’s gloves before he feels them, one curving along the bottom of his ribs to pull him tight against him—the buttons of Bond’s impeccably tailored suit dig into his back and leave him feeling underdressed, even as the hot curl of his hand through Q’s white work shirt makes him wish he had fewer clothes on—and the other tucking just beneath the edge of his jaw.  “Good boy,” Bond murmurs, and if Q objects to being praised like a dog, his protests are lost when Bond begins to slip the last buttons of his shirt free.  The seam of the glove against his skin raises gooseflesh behind when he walks his fingers down the length of Q’s chest as it’s bared; his flies are still open and his cock is still out, but Bond passes it to reach in and take hold of him securely, cupping his balls up against the root of his cock firmly.

The petting is wonderful, but Q is going to lose his mind if Bond doesn’t get a move on.  The sensation of the leather on his skin is maddening; Bond touches his face with the glove and Q bites him, hard enough to leave imprints.  He imagines he can taste Bond’s release on it and his cock throbs.  Bond’s hips buck against his lower back and Q groans.  “Tease,” he accuses breathlessly.

“Teases don’t follow through,” Bond says, hand leaving his cock before returning wet and cool.  “How’s that?”

“Perfect.”

It sounds filthy.  The lube draws out wet and sticky sounds and Q pants like he can’t get enough air, Bond’s hand and that damned leather glove wringing pleasure from him in a relentless pull that leaves him hanging in the shell of Bond’s arms.  It’s entirely too soon before he’s squirming, bending over the arm that’s working him, legs twisting free because he doesn’t have to hold himself up, can’t hold himself up, can’t keep his knee from trying to curl and protect him from the pleasure that threatens to drive him mad.  Bond strokes—pumps—and fondles, mouth hot on whichever parts of Q’s nape and back he can reach until Q cries, shuddering and deflating like a burst balloon.  He can hear the glove getting wetter and it leaves him dazed.

And there’s come everywhere: the floor and the cupboards near the flashing and the kickplate and Q’s thighs are sticky with it, smeared into his skin and the glove as Bond touches him through his orgasm until he’s shattered and his lungs hurt from pleading for air.  Bond lets him go and he staggers, nearly dives into the floor head first before Bond catches him again, laughing.  “I’m flattered,” Bond tells him honestly, and Q laughs between shaking gulps of breath.

“You should be,” he manages finally, knees knocking as Bond helps him finally stand up.  “And you?” Q asks, reaching back to tug playfully at the taut skin of Bond’s cock.

“I’ve an interest, myself,” Bond confesses.  Q grins and lets Bond lead his hand to his lap, wrapping around to guide him. 

“Leather?” Q asks.  Bond shakes his head ruefully.

“Just you.”


End file.
